"Don' you know 'bout Tump Pack already, Mister Siner?"
"No." Peter was astonished at the formality of the "Mr. Siner."
"Then is you 'spectin' somp'n 'bout him?"
"Why, no, but I was asleep in there a moment ago, and somebody came
along talking about Tump and Cissie. They--they aren't married, are
they?"
"Oh, no-o, no-o-o, no-o-o-o-o." The Persimmon waggled his bullet head
slowly from side to side. "I heared Tump got into a lil trouble wid de
jailer las' night."
"Serious?"
"I dunno." The Persimmon closed one of his protruding yellow eyes.
"Owin' to whut you call se'ius; maybe whut I call se'ius wouldn't be
se'ius to you at all; 'n 'en maybe whut you call se'ius would be ve'y
insince'ius to Tump." The roustabout's philosophy, which consisted in a
monotonous recasting of a given proposition, trickled on and on in the
cold wind. After a while it fizzled out to nothing at all, and the
Persimmon asked in a queer manner: "Did you give Tump some women's
clo'es, Peter?"
It was such an odd question that at first Peter was at loss; then he
recalled Nan Berry's despatching Cissie some underwear.
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